


In Another Place

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Series: Long Hard Road [2]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Aftermath, Blow Jobs, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: kink_bingo, Interracial Relationship, Kinks, M/M, POV Male Character, Scars, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year later, the team takes Roque to see Jolene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another Place

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows the events in [Long Hard Road](http://archiveofourown.org/works/104063), but it can stand alone. Thanks to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta. &lt;333

Jolene stands on the porch as the team files up the steps, Roque on point and Clay taking the rear. She looks up at Roque and slaps him across the face.

Clay blinks.

Everyone is too stunned to move, the crack of Jolene's palm against Roque's cheek echoing in his memory long after the sound has died in the space between all of them. Roque stares down at her, and Jolene stares back, those same palms smoothing down her skirt and then her hair. Jolene and Aisha have been spending enough time together that Clay can't help but wonder if she's got a knife stashed somewhere. Aisha's got a thoughtful expression to her face that looks like she might provide one if necessary.

But Jolene turns to open the screen door and says, "Now you can come in. Shoes off at the door. I just mopped."

"Baby," Pooch says, stepping forward and dragging her close, "I love you." He kisses her, clutching her close, and probably would have tipped her back if her hand hadn't been on the door handle. It's enough to ease some of the tension.

Pooch heads inside. Cougar follows but pauses to tip his hat to her, his mouth curled into a grin filled with as much pride as Pooch's kiss. Roque gives her a nod, his expression damn near unreadable, but Clay suspects that there might be pride there, too. He and Jolene will have to have their own talk to work out their differences.

"Next time," Aisha says as she and Jolene share a quick, tight hug, "go for the solar plexus."

It shouldn't make Jolene laugh, but Clay has a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth, too, so he keeps his silence and waits for Jensen to head inside. Jensen stops at the door, though, and pecks Jolene on the cheek, whispering something in her ear that brightens her smile.

She swats Jensen's arm and shakes her head, laughing softly. "Inside with you before you get yourself into trouble."

It's Clay and Jolene on the porch when Jensen heads inside. She lets the door go, gently so it doesn't bang against the frame, and looks up at him.

"Jo—" Clay starts, but she shakes her head, takes a step, and places a hand on his forearm, her small fingers squeezing.

"One step at a time," she says, eyes soft and warm. So Clay lets the explanation drop with a nod. He grins and holds his arm out for her. She accepts with a smile, squeezing him closer like it's a hug instead of an escort. "He better be worth it."

Clay keeps his silence on that one, too. Too much to explain and too hard at this juncture.

~*~

It's a long day and a long evening, almost well into the next day by the time everyone breaks out and heads home. Clay's sure Roque can feel it, but the time was well spent; they both know that.

Roque undresses slowly. It's the way he holds his breath when he's pulling his shirt over his head that gets Clay's attention. But Clay stays where he is on the bed and pulls off his boots.

"What are you gonna tell her?" Roque asks, walking to the corner of the room to deposit his shirt in the laundry basket.

Clay flicks a look behind him, catches sight of the scars twisted across Roque's back but looks away when he answers, "Don't know yet. What do you think I should tell her?"

"I'm not asking you what _I_ should tell her." The mattress dips when Roque sits. "I'm asking you what _you're_ gonna tell her."

Clay stands and sets his boots in the closet. "Yeah, I know." He turns, watching Roque sit there on the bed, and unbuttons his shirt. "Is there a reason we need to tell her anything? If we brought you, she knows you can be trusted."

Roque shoots Clay a look over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised. "What do you think?"

Clay laughs and shrugs out of his shirt. "You keep asking that. Is there some code I'm missing here?"

Roque's eyes slide down to Clay's chest, dipping lower when Clay reaches for his belt buckle. "Maybe some brain cells from the concussions."

"Concus_sion_," Clay says, slipping the strap free of the buckle. "I've only had one."

"Officially," Roque counters, and he's definitely watching Clay undress now, which sends a thud of pleasure pulsing in Clay's cock.

Clay grins. "Officially." He pushes down his pants, tugs them off, one leg at a time, and then pulls off his briefs, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor and making a slow walk to the bed.

Roque's eyebrow goes up again, eyes darting down to the pile. "Gonna pick that up?"

Clay rakes a hot look over Roque's body. "Gonna join me any time soon?"

"Maybe if you'll learn how to answer a damn question."

Clay crawls on the bed toward Roque. He sets his hands low on Roque's waist, the scars smooth against his palms, and spreads his legs so Roque is between the vee of his thighs. "Maybe if you'll learn how to follow a goddamn order."

Roque leans back until his back is flush with Clay's chest. Clay's skin prickles from the sensation, the overly smooth skin rubbing against the hairs on his chest. "Wouldn't be on the team if I followed every order that some asshole CO handed down."

Clay rubs his mouth against the back of Roque's neck as he slides his hands up Roque's arms, loosely curling them around Roque's biceps, tracing more scar tissue. "That's insubordination."

When Roque shivers, Clay can't help but wonder if it's the memories that do it or if it's the sensation of Clay's hands on him. Hard to tell these days. Not that it matters; scars just mean another day lived, so Clay tightens his hold on Roque, tilting his head so he can bite the thick patch of scars at Roque's nape.

"You used to call it smart fucking thinking," Roque says, breathless enough to be close to a moan.

Clay shrugs, even though Roque can't see the gesture, and rubs his lips over Roque's shoulder. "Things change when you're in charge."

"In charge of what?" Roque turns his head, his mouth scraping the stubble on Clay's jaw. "A ragtag group of defectors?"

Clay chuckles, lifting his eyes to Roque's face. "Watch your mouth, Captain"—Clay ignores the way Roque's eyes darken at the use of his rank, the way his mouth thins before he smoothes it out—"I have a damn fine team. I won't have you bad mouthing it."

Roque pulls away from Clay and stands. Clay stays where he is and waits, a smile ready on his face when Roque turns around.

"You got a bad team, you have to look at the CO."

The look Roque rakes over Clay is heated, damn near taunting, especially when it's followed by the way he shoves down his pants and briefs and still manages to maintain eye contact. It makes Clay's dick harden, the rapid thrum of his pulse beating a steady march south.

"Reckless," Clay says, trying to recover ground, "no respect for authority"—He grins and leans back, taking his cock in a loose grip—"inability to follow the chain of command."

Roque's eyes dart down, following the movement of Clay's hand on his shaft, and then dart back to Clay's face. "Are we talking about me or you? 'Cause you're the one who decked your CO when you served in Saudi."

Clay shrugs, forcing his eyes to stay open so he can watch the way Roque's cock thickens each time Clay tugs on his own. "He had it coming."

Roque takes a step forward, planting a hand on Clay's chest, and shoves. "You might, too."

Clay laughs as he falls back, his throat tightening when Roque pulls his hand away from his cock. "I'd like some warning if you're gonna deck me."

"Bet you'd like a lot of things," Roque shoots back, making Clay jerk when he drags his nails up Clay's sides. Clay's breath hitches when Roque slides a knee between his legs and leans in close, his breath fanning warm against Clay's jaw and ear. "So what're you gonna tell her?"

Clay sets his hands on Roque's waist and pushes, enough for Roque to get the point without Clay having to roll them both. He doesn't want to risk Roque pulling something; they still have to be careful. "Still haven't decided," Clay says, grabbing the pillow and handing it to Roque. "Seems low priority right now."

Roque shoves the pillow under his head and adjusts the second one at the small of his back while Clay settles between his legs. "Might not be tomorrow."

Clay slides his hands up Roque's calves, sweeping his thumbs over Roque's knees. He drops a kiss to the left kneecap where Roque gashed it open on an op in Colombia, tripped on their run back to the chopper and rolled head over heels down a hill. He traces the ridges of scarring on Roque's thighs with the tips of his fingers, following the twist of them up to Roque's hips. "Then we'll worry about it tomorrow."

Roque's eyes drift closed, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as Clay's hands glide higher. "Is that your policy for everything?"

Clay shifts closer and kisses the edge of Roque's jaw, the stubble rough against his lips. "It's a good policy."

Roque finally lifts a hand, and Clay has to exhale a slow breath when his fingers curl around the back of Clay's neck and squeeze. His grip is strong, firm; he's still Roque; he's still got Clay's back. "It's lazy."

Clay turns his head and brushes his lips up the inside of Roque's wrist. He can't feel the scars, but he knows they're there, too; every part of Roque is marked now like a goddamn map of where they've been. Clay leans in and catches the puckered scar that jags down Roque's shoulder with his teeth. It's hard to tell now what was the plane explosion and what was before that, but Clay remembers what this scar used to be: shrapnel from a car bomb that damn near killed them in Afghanistan.

"It works," Clay says.

Roque's nails drag down, scratching the top knob of Clay's spine when he shifts, letting Clay touch him however he pleases. "Until tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," Clay agrees. It sounds more like a toast, but it effectively ends the conversation. That or the way Clay marks a path down to Roque's nipple with lips and tongue and a soft scrape of teeth.

Clay finds each scar that he can, each tat — the few that are left — and each memory and lays his own marks there. They won't last long, but nothin' ever does, and Clay's learned, they don't have to. They just have to last long enough for this moment, for Roque to start shifting, restless, his fingers digging into Clay's skin like he's trying to leave his own marks. Clay bites the inside of his cheek when Roque gets a hand in his hair, starts pulling on the strands until Clay's scalp burns, but he jerks away and continues biting a damp line up the inside of Roque's thigh, bypassing Roque's cock and ignoring the pre-come smeared on the tip, even though his mouth is watering for a taste.

"Goddamn it, Clay," Roque growls, hips bucking up.

Clay plants a hand on Roque's thighs and pushes him back down. "Easy there."

Before Roque can shoot back a curse as scathing as his glare, Clay stretches his lips around Roque's cock. It only takes a few hard sucks before Roque is coming, shoving up hard and fast into Clay's mouth. Clay keeps his teeth tucked behind his lips and takes a deep breath through his nostrils. He swallows what he can, squeezing Roque's shaft and rubbing lines up and down Roque's thigh with his left. When Roque is spent, a shiver wracking through him, Clay pulls off with a grin. He swipes a tongue over his lips and then licks the come from between his fingers as he stares at Roque, relaxed against the wall, his cock softening between his thighs and still dripping come. Clay can't help but bend down and lick a teasing swirl around the tip to catch the rest, feeling the shudder that rolls through Roque's body and meeting Roque's narrow-eyed glare head on.

They stay like that — Clay between Roque's legs, rubbing his thighs, his calves, his sides — for a full minute before Roque shifts. He reaches for Clay and gets a loose grip on Clay's cock, but Clay pushes his hand away.

"Later," he says and rolls over so he can stretch alongside Roque on the bed.

Roque stares at Clay for another good minute, but he nods and gets an arm under Clay's head. Clay doesn't protest this time.

They're damn near half asleep when Roque asks, "What's gotten into you today?"

Clay opens his eyes but lets them drift shut again, his brain slow to process the question. "Maybe you later tonight."

Roque huffs out a breath that could be a laugh, could be a snort, and mutters something under his breath that Clay's too tired to decode. So he just grins and strokes patterns over Roque's chest, his palm finally settling on Roque's stomach. Maybe he'll tell Jolene this: that Roque's paid his dues. There's nothing left for either one of them to lose.


End file.
